


Wine Untasted

by BlackRapture



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Original Character(s), Post - Deathly Hallows, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-31
Updated: 2013-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-28 14:27:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/308831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackRapture/pseuds/BlackRapture
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He emerged from seclusion to find acceptance - what he found was her. /post-DH/Draco/Hermione/</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Sky is Laced with Fitful Red

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work in progress that I am actively working on.

For many years, the Potions master of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had been characterized by his vicious temper and intimidating presence. Severus Snape caused students to scurry frantically away with a single glance or even burst into distressed tears in his cavernous dungeon classroom. After his untimely death in the Second Wizarding War, the time came to fill the formidable shoes of the dreaded Potions master. Although the late Professor Snape was afterwards venerated as a war hero, many still breathed a sigh of relief at the prospect of a less vindictive replacement. Seldom has any glimmer of hope been so thoroughly and harshly extinguished as the day that the Headmistress informed Horace Slughorn that he could return to his comfortable retirement after maintaining his undesired post for nearly three years.

“And whom have you found to replace Severus once and for all, Minerva?” Professor Slughorn asked with unabashed curiosity.

“Draco Malfoy,” Professor McGonagall replied soberly. Professor Slughorn lifted an eyebrow.

“Do you really think that wise? The Malfoy name isn’t what it used to be.”

“Be that as it may, he is one of the few qualified candidates who is interested in a long-term position.”

“I see. Well, no doubt Severus would have been pleased to have his legacy continued by a Slytherin.”

“No doubt.”

“I don’t envy him,” Slughorn admitted. “Many parents won’t take kindly to their children being taught by a former Death Eater.”

“Mr. Malfoy became a Death Eater under extreme duress and fear. I trust that he can find a place for himself here at Hogwarts. Many an outcast has called this castle home,” McGonagall reminded him.

/

While the Malfoy name had lost much of its luster since the end of the war, the Malfoy gold remained as plentiful as ever. The family still enjoyed fine clothes, fine furnishings, and fine food – even if their social lives had taken a drastic downturn. Narcissa rarely left the mansion, preferring to spend her days redecorating its many rooms or confined within its massive library. Lucius could only be glimpsed on a handful of occasions throughout the week, his time abroad eclipsing that which he spent in Britain.

Draco’s appearances were even less frequent than his father’s, although he remained within the walls of the manor. Over the years, the entire wing that housed Draco’s bedroom had been transformed into a giant laboratory which he seldom ventured away from. His meals were delivered by the house-elves, who often struggled to find a place amongst the cauldrons and phials to set their perfectly polished trays. The many windows were always open to allow the escape of various fumes as well as admit the owls that delivered responses to Draco’s numerous communications.

On occasion, Narcissa would drape herself across a large crimson couch against the far wall with a book. Sometimes she inquired as to what Draco was working on but more often than not she simply read in silence for several hours before leaving as unobtrusively as she came.

In the event that Lucius desired a family meal during one of his homecomings, Draco materialized in the dining room punctually and properly attired. They made small talk about Lucius’ recent travels, Narcissa’s latest interior endeavor, and Draco’s reclusive experiments.

It was during just such a conversation that Draco announced his intentions to abandon his solitary existence in order to accept the position of Hogwarts Potions master.

“A very odd choice, Draco, I must say, ” Lucius drawled.

“I realize it must seem that way,” Draco replied.

“You always seemed so content up there by yourself, darling,” Narcissa added.

“Quite content, mother,” he agreed. “But I have become restless.”

“And you think going back to that castle where everyone will likely loathe the sight of you is going to soothe your agitation?” Lucius asked mildly.

“Professor McGonagall considers me the best person for the position,” Draco informed him. “So clearly not everyone will loathe the sight of me.”

“Indeed,” the older man said flatly.

“You’ve never expressed any interest in teaching, Draco,” his mother declared.

“I confess I’ve never had any particular interest,” he replied. “But I am always eager for new experiences. I can’t stay in this house indefinitely.”

“I suppose,” Narcissa nodded.

/

Draco spend the next day in Diagon Alley, restocking his own personal potions supplies at Slug & Jiggers, perusing textbooks at Flourish and Blotts, and purchasing new robes at Twilfitt and Tatting’s. Although he encountered genuine enthusiasm from the sycophantic Tiberius Tatting, others who recognized him exhibited only shock or disgust.

It was common knowledge that Draco hardly ever left Malfoy Manor - every few months there was an article in the _Daily Prophet_ about ‘The Eccentric Draco Malfoy’ and whatever recent paper he had published in _The Pratical Potioneer_ courtesy of Rita Skeeter. His isolationist behavior was no secret, so his sudden appearance in Wizarding Britain’s busiest shopping district warranted surprise indeed. However, many managed to stamp down their astonishment in favor of a sneer or scowl in his direction.

Having summoned a house-elf to relieve him of his many purchases, Draco now stood in front of Potage’s Cauldron Shop. As he examined a silver self-stirring cauldron in the shop window, an enormous reflection appeared beside him.

“‘Lo there, Mr. Malfoy,” a gruff but familiar voice greeted. Draco looked up into the smiling and bushy-bearded face of Rubeus Hagrid.

“Um, hello Hagrid,” he replied, utterly dumbfounded as to why this man was talking to him.

“Getting ready for school, eh?” the giant asked excitedly.

“Yes.”

“Professor McGonagall told me you were taking up the position. ‘Spect Slughorn will be glad to get the ‘ell out of Hogwarts for good.”

“I expect.”

“Surprised it was you as took the job, though. I ‘ear you don’t get out much these days.”

“No.”

“Well no one can blame you tha’,” Hagrid laughed. “I was just goin’ to get a drink. Care to come along?”

“Um, alright?” Draco replied, unused to such civil behavior from the outside world.

They walked the short way to The Leaky Cauldron in silence and Draco followed Hagrid to a booth towards the back of the bar. Tom the barman came over with a mug of firewhisky and set it in front of Hagrid before turning to Draco.

“Same,” Draco told him.

With their drinks in front of them, Draco waited for Hagrid to offer an explanation for his strange behavior.

“‘Spose you’re wonderin’ why I’m not arborin’ a grudge for a wha’ a little git you were back at ‘Ogwarts.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I never was much for tha’ sort of thing. I reckon you di’ a lot o’ things you wish you ‘adn’t. But you’ve kept yourself locked away for a while now an’ I reckon if you’re ta’in this job you’re rea’y to be forgiven. We can’t live in the past forever,” Hagrid told him. Draco took a drink but didn’t respond. “Tha’s alright. A lot o’ people didn’t care for me much a few years ago. But ‘Ogwarts ‘as a way of makin’ people at home. People like us. Outsiders.”

“Outsiders,” Draco repeated.

“Ay. You’ll be alrigh’, Malfoy,” Hagrid promised. He placed a coin on the table before lifting his large frame up and heading back towards the entrance to Diagon Alley.

Draco stared into his firewhisky for a long time before he apparated back to Malfoy Manor.

/

The week before fall term began, Draco prepared to leave for Hogsmeade early. His father had made himself conveniently scarce, having left for Bulgaria the previous afternoon. Narcissa floated into Draco’s laboratory while he was packing his bookshelves.

“Why don’t you let one of the house-elves do that for you, darling?” his mother asked.

“I prefer to organize them in my own way,” Draco replied simply.

“Very well,” she sighed, watching him shrink a large stack of books and levitate it into his trunk.

“Was there something else?” he asked without looking at her.

“I suppose not, Draco,” Narcissa answered, hesitating slightly before turning and leaving the room.

Half an hour later, Draco examined the skeletal remains of his workspace to ensure he had not forgotten anything. Satisfied that he needed nothing more, Draco locked the door and Apparated outside of The Three Broomsticks.

The skinny brunette boy behind the bar looked at Draco suspiciously as he handed him his room key, gesturing vaguely towards the stairs at the other end of the pub. After confirming that his luggage had been sent ahead by the house-elves, Draco set out along the High Street.

Just as in Diagon Alley, Draco received frequent looks of both loathing and amazement from witches and wizards he passed. Years of practice made it easy for Draco to exude an air of indifferent confidence, allowing him to appear unruffled despite great internal discomfort. He went about his business like any other unconcerned Hogsmeade patron, spending nearly two hours popping in and out of shops he had not visited for many years.

“Will you be taking these with you or shall I have them delivered?” asked the tall redhead behind the counter at Gladrags.

“I’ll take them,” Draco responded, sliding the dark green dragon-hide gloves into the pocket of his robes.

“Have a nice day,” the girl said with a smile. Draco raised an eyebrow at her, mentally assuming she had been living under a rock for the last several years since she clearly didn’t know who he was.

“Thank you,” he replied before sweeping out the door. As Draco started back towards The Three Broomsticks, a slow rain began to fall. By the time he reached his destination, the sky had completely opened up and Draco was soaked to the skin. He cast a drying spell on his clothes as he headed across the floor towards the stairs.

“Mr. Malfoy,” a voice called from his right. Draco looked over to see the stern face and severe bun of Professor McGonagall.

“Professor,” Draco said, “I wasn’t expecting to see you.”

“Nor I you, Mr. Malfoy. Term does not start for several days.”

“I thought I’d just enjoy Hogsmeade until then.”

“I see,” she replied, gesturing to the chair across from her. Draco sat down and ran a hand through his hair, which was still wet from the rain. “Been doing a bit of shopping this afternoon?”

“Yes. I haven’t been here for sometime,” Draco confessed.

“You’ve been keeping to yourself. But apparently teaching a bunch of ‘dunderheads’ was tempting enough to lure you out,” she said with a small smirk. The corners of Draco’s lips twitched in response to her use of Professor Snape’s favorite insult.

“A change was lure enough.”

“But surely you’ve enjoyed committing yourself to research for so long? Your work has been most impressive.”

“I have. And I plan to continue my research - with less intensity.”

“Hogwarts is lucky to have such an accomplished addition to the staff. Though I think you will find it much changed from the last time you were here.”

“For the better, I expect.”

“I certainly believe so,” Professor McGonagall replied. “The animosity that thrived so strongly is much diminished. But I’m afraid Slytherins will always be Slytherins.”

“Indeed,” Draco agreed.

“Have you made your decision concerning the Head of House position?”

“It will be an unfamiliar role for me, but I will accept it should you still wish it.”

“I am very glad to hear it. Professor Vector will be inappropriately relieved - she has no taste for the position. The ability to relate to students was never one of her talents.”

“Neither is it one of mine,” Draco reminded her. Professor McGonagall took a sip from her wine glass.

“I have faith that it will be good for you,” she stated plainly, “A learning experience.”

“Do you suppose that Professor Snape found it so?” he asked wryly.

“Not at all. Perhaps you will do better.”

“Perhaps.”

“Well, I must return to the castle. Enjoy your stay, Mr. Malfoy. I will see you very soon,” Professor McGonagall said, leaving a few coins on the table before getting up and heading for the door. Draco looked after her, wondering why she and Hagrid had made such an effort to engage him in friendly conversation and be polite. He assumed that he had only been hired because he was the most qualified for the position and quite possibly the only one who had been willing to accept it. Professor Slughorn had been anxious to abandon his post ever since he had been obligated to take it, so Draco was surely a last resort.

As he lay in bed that night, Draco allowed himself to experience a miniscule glimmer of hope. There was a chance that someday, far in the future, that he could be known as something more than a Death Eater, a traitor, incapable of any redemption for the mistakes he had made as a weak, scared child.


	2. The Circling Mists and Shadows Flee

During her years at Hogwarts, Hermione Granger had become accustomed to a sense of urgency, excitement, and imminent doom. Without the constant threat of something lurking just around the corner, she found herself in a state of perpetual boredom. Whereas Hermione bounced around from place to place and job to job, her two best friends had adjusted effortlessly to the ebb and flow of ordinary life.

Harry was currently on vacation before assuming his official status as an Auror, having completed his training three months previously. Hermione smiled as she remembered having lunch with him earlier that week, recalling the look of unadulterated joy on his face as he showed her the ring he had bought for Ginny. He was proposing to her that night and Hermione had no doubt that The Boy Who Lived would indeed live happily ever after.

Ron had advanced slightly less quickly than Harry in his training and would not be graduating for a few weeks. He spent most of his free time with his family, peeling potatoes with Mrs. Weasley, being the guinea pig for George’s latest invention, and searching for seashells with Victoire. The Weasleys were never quite the same after the war. There were still dinners in the garden with mountains of food and laughter, but everyday life at The Burrow was more subdued and less energetic than it had been. Mr. Weasley spent more time alone in his shed, and Hermione often caught Mrs. Weasley standing over the kitchen sink staring out the window at nothing. She suspected that with no one in the house to take care of, Mrs. Weasley didn’t quite know what to do with herself.

A few months after the war had ended, Hermione returned to Hogwarts to complete her N.E.W.T.s. Harry and Ron chose to begin their Auror training immediately, despite Hermione’s objections. Just because they could be exempted from them didn’t mean they should, in her opinion. Her disapproval, coupled with the amount of focus that each of their respective decisions required, created a rift between them. Over time they began to exchange letters and soon their heads began to appear in each other’s fireplaces. After six months, everything was relatively back to normal. Hermione still sighed with exhaustion when they started talking about Quidditch. She and Ron still bickered about his emotional incompetence and her insufferable pretentiousness.

And yet, she could not seem to overcome the restlessness that had consumed her ever since leaving Hogwarts. Try as she might to find a place where she felt content and fulfilled, satisfaction eluded her. She had briefly considered Auror training, but ultimately felt that her future lie in more intellectual pursuits. To finance her personal research, Hermione had worked at Flourish and Blotts for several months. While she loved being surrounded by books, she had wanted a challenge beyond what her part-time tinkering offered.

This led her to the Ministry and the Department of International Magic Cooperation – Percy led her to the International Magical Trading Standards Body. While Harry and Ron had never shown any interest in cauldron bottoms, Hermione happened to think that trading standards were important and even interesting. If you were on academic par with Percy, he was easy to get along with and even cracked the occasional joke. After a year, Hermione had fallen into a comfortable rhythm and thought that she had found her place in the world. However, she soon unearthed a particularly scandalous broomstick incident involving the Twigger 180 and a faulty Breaking Charm. Hermione was outraged when she was required to turn her scoop over to Broom Regulatory Control.

It was then that Hermione realized that her thirst for investigating and uncovering might be put to good use. As a war hero, it wasn’t exactly difficult for her to get a meeting with Barnabas Cuffe, the editor of the _Daily Prophet_. He simply told her to bring him a story and he’d make her an offer if it was any good. A quick chat with her old friend Rita Skeeter put her hot on the trail of underage drinking at a disreputable pub called The Bloody Banshee in Knockturn Alley. Expecting to find nothing but a morally bankrupt bartender, Hermione was surprised to discover that a group of miscreants had actually been confunding the waitresses.

Cuffe had been very impressed with Hermione’s discovery and gave her a position as an investigative reporter. After a few months of writing exposés and meeting deadlines, she received an unexpected letter from an even more unexpected correspondent.

 _Ms. Granger,_

 _It has recently come to my attention that you are currently employed at the Daily Prophet. I was unaware that you had any interest in writing, but this information allows me to offer you a unique and exciting opportunity._

 _My colleague, Professor Cuthbert Binns, has searched some time for the perfect candidate for this particular endeavor. When we discovered that writing was one of your many talents, I immediately designed to enlist your services._

 _It has been the longtime wish not only of myself and Professor Binns, but also the late Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, to publish a revised and updated version of Hogwarts: A History. I can think of no one more qualified than one of Hogwarts’ most distinguished graduates. Should you accept this daunting task, arrangements will be made to accommodate you at Hogwarts for as long as you feel necessary. The occupants of the castle will be at your disposal, happy to assist you with any information you require._

 _I hope this letter finds you well and greatly anticipate your reply._

 _Best Regards,_

 _Irma Pince_

/

“Perhaps I should not have mentioned to Professor Slughorn that I had recently hired you,” Cuffe lamented. “No doubt he relayed the information to one of his co-workers.”

“You should know better than most how much he enjoys bragging about the success of his former students,” Hermione said with a smile.

“You are right, of course. But the fact remains that I am losing a promising young reporter.”

“Only temporarily. I fully intend to return once I am finished.”

“And who knows how long that will be? Such a project will take a great amount of time, especially for someone with your meticulous disposition.”

“Well I hope that there will always be a place for me here, no matter how long I’m away.”

“Of course,” Cuffe promised, standing up to shake Hermione’s hand. “I am sorry to say goodbye, but I wholeheartedly agree that you are just the person for this job. I cannot wait to read it myself.”

“Thank you, Barnabas,” she replied. “Until next time.” Hermione left his office and returned to her desk, where she began levitating frames and files into a box. Several people stopped by to say their goodbyes and good lucks before she picked up her belongings and apparated to her flat.

“So how did he take it?” asked a dreamy voice behind her. Hermione jumped in surprise, whirling around to stare into Luna’s large grey eyes.

“You told me you’d try to stop doing that,” Hermione reminded her.

“Oh yes, I did, didn’t I?” Luna replied, fiddling with one of her enormous sunflower earrings.

“Anyway, how did who take what?”

“How did Barney take your quitting?”

“Barney?”

“He’s quite an old friend of the family.”

“Even though he runs a rival publication?”

“ _The Quibbler_ doesn’t have any rivals,” Luna stated matter-of-factly. “It covers a broader and more interesting range of subjects than any other news source.”

“Of course,” Hermione agreed. “He took it fine. Even said I could come back when I was finished.”

“I think I will be terribly lonesome without you here.”

“I’m sure you’ll be fine. And you can come visit me,” Hermione promised, still unaccustomed to her roommate’s often uncomfortable emotional candor after almost two years living together.

“Are we going to throw you a party?” Luna asked.

“What for?”

“For going away. People throw parties for going away.”

“I suppose they do. If you like, I suppose. But it’s not as though I’m leaving the country, you know.”

“Yes, but I do like a party,” Luna declared enthusiastically. “I’m going to start inviting people.” Hermione just smiled as the eccentric blonde jumped up and skipped to her bedroom. War hadn’t changed Luna at all, which was one of the reasons Hermione loved being around her.

/

While Hermione’s farewell party wasn’t as bizarre as Luna herself, there was no shortage of strange food and décor. Amongst the refreshments were Gurdyroot Punch and a large bubblegum pink layer cake. Hanging from the ceiling were dozens of papier-mâché heads, replicas of famous witches and wizards associated with Hogwarts.

“How in Merlin’s name did she find the time?” Neville asked incredulously, staring up at the floating head of Helga Hufflepuff. “She only had a week.”

“Quite frankly, I don’t ask anymore,” Hermione replied.

“She can really be resourceful when she puts her mind to it,” Ron commented through a mouthful of the appallingly pink cake. Hermione rose a disapproving eyebrow at him before turning to a group of witches next to her who were admiring Ginny’s engagement ring.

“So gorgeous” Katie Bell gushed, pulling Ginny’s hand up to eye level.

“And so huge” Padma Patil added, eyeing Harry appreciatively from across the room.

“It is, isn’t it?” Ginny agreed in a rare moment of purely feminine sensibility, staring at her finger with satisfaction. Harry came up behind her with a glass of champagne, which she took before kissing him chastely on the lips. The surrounding flock giggled and shrieked with approval, at which Harry looked very startled

Once Ginny’s adoring fans had dispersed, they were joined by Ron and the four of them reminisced on some of their happy misadventures at Hogwarts. But soon the conversation turned to darker memories and their last harrowing days there together.

“Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever be able to go back,” Ginny confessed, downing another glass of champagne.

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” Harry agreed, “I used to think of it as home. But I don’t know if I’d be able to see anything but death and destruction.”

“I used to think that,” Ron told them, “But I’ve been back since then and you wouldn’t know it to look at the place. Looks just like it used to. No sign of any of it.”

“I’m excited,” Hermione confessed. “It’ll be a bit like going back in time.”

“Not to mention you get to find out all the unpublished secrets of Hogwarts and expose them,” Harry said with a grin.

“Oh really, Harry. You make it sound as if I’ll go looking for trouble.”

“I’m sure you’ll find some whether you’re looking or not,” Ginny told her.

“You can finally write about the plight of the Hogwarts house-elves,” Ron said with a smirk. “Get S.P.E.W. up and running again.”

“Oh shut up, Ron” Hermione snapped, smiling despite herself.

/

A few days later, Hermione sat in The Three Broomsticks reading the morning issue of the _Daily Prophet_ and waiting on a realtor who was meant to show her around some flats. The front page was devoted to the upcoming Quidditch World Cup, to be held in Germany. The rivalry between Peru and Japan was escalating to ridiculous proportions, something which Hermione had been unfortunate enough to witness firsthand at her part. She was sure Seamus and Ron would have gotten into a physical altercation over it had Luna not diffused the situation by beginning to dance in her uniquely strange way directly between them.

Turning to the second page, Hermione spotted the familiar blonde hair and irritated face of Draco Malfoy towards the bottom. He was hurrying down what looked to be Diagon Alley carrying a few parcels under his arm and resolutely ignoring the camera. The photo was accompanied by a small article headlined RECLUSIVE MALFOY SPOTTED. Hermione read on and was surprised to know that Malfoy had been seen not only in Diagon Alley, but also in Hogsmeade earlier that very week.

Being employed by the paper, Hermione was obviously an avid reader as well. She knew that Malfoy had only been seen in public every six months or so for the last few years. Two sightings in such a short amount of time was odd indeed, suggesting that perhaps his seclusion in Malfoy Manor was coming to an end for some reason. Hermione had never given Malfoy much thought except when she saw him mentioned in print, but she now wondered if he was at all changed since the last time she saw him. Harry’s testimony at the trials following the war had helped lessen the sentences of the entire Malfoy family. They had avoided any time in Azkaban in favor of a long probationary period that would not end for another two years.

Draco Malfoy’s trial was the last time that Hermione had seen him. She remembered thinking then that he already looked very different from the arrogant and confident bully who never seemed to have a care in the world. He had been in the intimate clutches of the most feared wizard of all time and Hermione could not imagine what horrors he had likely been forced to witness and perhaps even participate in. Hermione certainly knew what it felt like to fear for her life, something Malfoy probably had to endure every moment for years. What had that and the following period of solitude done to him? She wondered if she would


	3. The Dawn is Rising From the Sea

The Dawn is Rising From the Sea

Draco had always been hesitant to call any place home. Malfoy Manor was impressive and imposing, with sumptuous furnishings and priceless heirlooms, but it was also somewhat lifeless and formal. Most of his fellow students had hated him on principle, as so many were taught that Slytherins were a lot not to be trusted. Quite right, in the end. But despite the presence of so many who disliked him, Draco had always simply enjoyed the novelty of being surrounded by people.

The manor had often been host to lavish parties when he was a boy, but he wasn’t allowed to attend them. No one had been much in the mood for such things during the Dark Lord’s return to power. And after the war, no one but his mother and the house-elves were there to alleviate the oppressive vastness of the manor’s endless rooms and empty hallways.

As he roamed the corridors of Hogwarts, Draco was struck by how different it’s emptiness felt compared to that of his childhood home. Where the manor was lit by elegant candles in gleaming silver candelabras, the castle was brightened by rustic torches crackling merrily in their brackets. Walking the halls of the manor alone had always made him feel cold and often scared. As Draco’s footsteps echoed off the stone walls of Hogwarts, he felt calm and content. A movement caught his eye and he glanced over at a painting of a dark-haired woman in a corseted French gown. She fluttered her fan suggestively and winked at him. Draco gave her a lopsided smile before heading back to his quarters in the dungeons.

/

The day before classes began, Draco woke up feeling like a small hippogriff was clomping around inside his skull. He admitted to himself, and only to himself, that he was terrified. He had already rearranged the Potions classroom, restocked the ingredients cupboard, and planned his lessons for the next month. There was nothing for him to do but drown in a sea of his own trepidation.

Draco took his breakfast in his quarters, a cup of bitter black coffee alleviating the throbbing of his temples slightly. He dressed reluctantly and made his way through the labyrinth of dungeon corridors to his office with the intention of writing a letter to his mother. While he usually appreciated the privacy that his rooms afforded, being so far off the main dungeon that no one would ever find them unintentionally, Draco’s mood only darkened during the five minute walk from his door to the Potions room.

While the room could certainly not be called cheerful, Draco had attempted to make it less foreboding than it had been during Professor Snape’s tenure. He had been surprised to discover that Professor McGonagall had not had the office emptied until a few days earlier. Everything had been left exactly as it was until Draco required the space. The room was more brightly lit and the specimens that had once lined the walls were gone, except for a large jar above the fireplace that Draco had salvaged before it was stored away. It contained a large orange flower suspended in clear liquid – the label read _Tiger Lily_.

/

After descending the Owlery stairs, Draco made his way outside and aimlessly wandered the grounds. He circled around the lake and caught a glimpse of the squid gliding lazily back and forth, stopping for several moments at the foot of the white marble tomb. He passed the Quidditch pitch and the greenhouses, skirted the Forbidden Forest, and eventually found himself ambling up the main stairs and back into the castle.

Draco was mildly surprised not to have passed anyone the entire morning, but he supposed many of them were still preparing for the start of term. There was a staff meeting scheduled later that day, something he was looking forward to much as he would his own execution. While Professor McGonagall and Hagrid had treated him with kindness, he knew that the best he could hope for from the rest of his colleagues was indifference. Indeed, indifference would be preferable to the outright disgust he was expecting.

He made his way up to the library, where he finally made human contact. Madame Pince was flitting around with an armful of books, her feather duster in one hand. Her head shot up at the sound of an intruder, eyes narrowed in suspicion. Upon seeing him she simply arched her eyebrow before disappearing amongst the shelves.

To Draco’s relief, the library had not changed. Some parts of the castle still bore unmistakable evidence of the Dark Lord’s final defeat and the accompanying destruction. No doubt the library had sustained several toppled shelves and cracked windows, but nothing irreversible.

Meandering through the stacks and running his fingers over the weathered spines, he could almost imagine that none of it had actually happened. As he inhaled the musty, delicious smell of aged parchment and well-worn leather, Draco remembered many hours spent in the solitude of a hidden alcove near the Restricted Section. Surrounded by such an immense amount of knowledge as well as fantasy, he had been able to forget himself for a while.

His alcove was predictably empty, the large armchair and small wooden table probably untouched since the last time he had sat in it. The recess was barely noticeable at a glance and much too close to the Restricted Section for many to accidentally discover it.

Draco heard movement and turned around, glancing down the row to one of the study areas. One of the gigantic wooden tables was stacked high with volumes, amongst which he could barely make out the head of someone with brown hair. He didn’t attempt to hide himself as he ventured down the adjacent shelves to get a better look, but he didn’t make himself conspicuous either.

He certainly hadn’t been expecting to see Hermione Granger, but coming upon her in the library somehow lessened the shock. She was arching her back against her chair, arms stretched out high above her as she yawned. Readjusting her position, she happened to glance up and make eye contact with him. Understandably, she started. Clutching a hand to her throat, she managed to arrest the strangled shriek that had begun to escape.

“Sweet Merlin!” Hermione gasped. “What the bloody hell are you doing here?”

“Just… browsing,” Draco said.

“No, I mean here here. At Hogwarts.”

“Oh, um. I work here.”

“What?” she asked.

“I work here,” he repeated.

“Doing what?”

“Teaching.”

“Oh. No one mentioned.”

“Who would have? I expect no one knows except the staff. Which you aren’t, are you?” Draco demanded with a slight feeling of horror.

“Ha. Don‘t worry,” she assured him. “No.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“Research.”

“I can see that,” he responded sarcastically, looking pointedly at the mountains of books surrounding her.

“Yes. Obviously,” Hermione replied. There was an awkward pause while they both looked at each other, then at something else, then back at each other. “So… how are you?” she finally asked.

“Brilliant,” Draco answered flatly, his jaw tightening.

“Good.”

“And you, Granger?”

“Good, yeah. Great. Sorry, what are you teaching?”

“Potions.”

“Of course. What else?” she said, laughing uneasily.

“And what are you researching?”

“I‘ve been hired to revise Hogwarts: A History.”

“What else?” he replied with a smirk.

“Quite,” she agreed.

“Nearly done, are you?”

“No, I‘ve only just started.”

“Ah. So you‘re going to be here,” Draco asked.

“Yes. For this term, at least. Probably more,” Hermione said, looking rather apologetic.

“Brilliant,” he said. “Well, I guess I‘ll be seeing you then, won‘t I?” Draco turned to leave.

“Look, I—” she started, prompting him to turn back to her. “It‘s alright, isn‘t it? We‘re adults and there‘s not a war on, is there? Everything is different now. We don‘t hate each other anything.”

“No,” he agreed. “I suppose we don‘t. What the point anymore?” She nodded and gave him a small smile before returning to the book in front of her.

/

The staff meeting was shockingly uneventful. He had assumed correctly that everyone had been warned of his arrival, as his introduction was met with nothing but a few narrowed eyes and subtle glances. Professor McGonagall also announced Granger, informing them of her extended stay and advising them to provide her with anything she might require for her research. The only person Draco did not recognize was a dark-haired man in navy robes who looked terribly bored. He assumed that this was the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, as it was the only post he couldn’t account for from those in the room.

After they had been dismissed, Draco caught up with Filch.

“Mr. Filch,” he called. The shriveled caretaker turned around, looking at him suspiciously.

“Professor.”

“I was wondering if you might help me locate something for my rooms.”

“And what would that be?”

“Perhaps you could just tell me where spare furniture and things of that sort are kept,” Draco asked, hoping he would receive a simple answer and end this conversation.

“There are a many storage rooms in this castle,” Filch drawled impatiently. “What exactly were you looking for?”

“A piano,” he answered. The caretaker looked at him rather strangely before replying.

“I’ll have one brought down to you after dinner.”

“I’d rather handle it myself.”

“Very well… there’s a closet with the red door in the Music room corridor. Fifth floor.”

“Thank you,” Draco said briskly, hurrying away before Filch could inquire further.

/

Later that evening, the young professor crept out of his secluded dungeon quarters and up to the fifth floor. He located the red door that Filch had mentioned and unlocked it with the spell that Professor McGonagall had shown him upon his arrival at Hogwarts. Draco had always wondered why ordinary locking spells did not work on many of the castle doors when he was a student. As he whispered the words, Draco experienced a momentary thrill at the knowledge that he could obtain entry to almost any room in the school.

He held his wand aloft as he entered, the light issuing from its tip casting a beam across the floor of the large storeroom. Draco poked around for at least twenty minutes, examining craftsmanship and lightly tapping keys. Eventually, he chose an ornately carved Victorian upright with a dark wood finish he would identify later.

After maneuvering it through the maze of other instruments and equipment strewn about the room, Draco levitated the piano out the door. Spelling the closet closed behind him, he began to lead his newly acquired prize down the corridor.

He had just reached stepped off the stairs onto the second floor when he heard footsteps. Glancing around, he saw the unknown professor from the staff meeting descending the stairs behind him.

“Well,” the other man said, his voice giving away a barely noticeable Irish inflection. “I don’t quite know what to make of this.”

“I suppose not,” Draco replied.

“But who am I to tell a man what he can or cannot levitate around the castle in the dead of night? I myself have been caught in the midst of many a suspicious activity.”

“I just don’t prefer to draw attention to myself.”

“To be sure, Mr. Malfoy. You’ve had quite enough of that for a lifetime, I daresay,” he declared.

Under ordinary circumstances, Draco would have found the immediate familiarity with which this complete stranger was addressing him to be inappropriate and irritating. But there was something about the lack of judgment in his tone and expression that drew him in rather than repelled him.

“I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced,” Draco said, moving his wand to his left hand in order to extend his right.

“Fabian Killelea,” the dark-haired man replied, accepting Draco’s handshake.

“How long have you been here?”

“Since the end of the War.”

“I don’t recognize you. You can’t be much older.”

“I doubt I am. I went to school in America,” Fabian explained. Draco just nodded, drumming his fingers on the top of the floating piano.

“I’d best be off,” he said, gesturing towards the instrument.

“Yes. Best of luck with your… creeping.”

“I’m not creeping,” Draco insisted haughtily. “I’m just… being subtle.”

“Of course,” Fabian agreed with a smirk. He turned and headed off down the corridor, leaving Draco and his piano to continue their journey unobstructed.

/

The first week of classes was not nearly as horrible as Draco expected. The younger students were positively terrified of him, which made for what he considered a quiet and pleasant work environment. The older students were slightly harder to read, but could basically be separated into three main categories.

Many of them were also terrified of him, albeit less blatantly than the first and second years. There was a lot of wincing and avoidance of eye contact from this lot. The majority of them, to Draco’s relief, were entirely unaffected by the entire affair. They simply answered when called on, followed directions, and didn’t blow anything up.

The most bizarre group were those who seemed to exhibit something alarmingly like attraction in his presence, though they were thankfully a minority. This ranged from blushing and stammering to inappropriate glances from some seventh years girls and a sixth year boy. Draco resolutely ignored all of this, determined not to fall prey to the advances of an underage witch (or wizard) regardless of how long it had been since he had received so much as a saucy wink.


	4. Like a White Lady From Her Bed

Hermione ventured out very little during her first few weeks at Hogwarts. Once students had begun to infiltrate the library, Madame Pince provided Hermione with a private room in which to continue her research. She had developed a daily routine which allowed her the maximum amount of time to delve into the many mysteries of the castle.

She woke up at six o’clock, showered and breakfasted in her small flat, then headed up to the school. By half past seven, she was buried behind stacks of tomes and texts. One of the house-elves brought her lunch, requiring her to leave her work only to retrieve another source or satisfy bodily functions. Dinner was had in The Three Broomsticks around six in the evening while she looked over her notes for the day.

By seven she was back in her flat, where she kept herself busy with reading, writing letters, and keeping in contact with her friends and family via the fireplace. She was in bed by ten.

After a month of this monotonous but effective schedule, Hermione had made significant progress on the additions and updates she planned to make to the revised _Hogwarts: A History_.

The first week of October found Hermione still hidden away behind dozens of books of varying sizes, as well as a warming charm she had placed on the room that morning. She had just put down her quill to stretch when she heard a tapping on the window behind her. Turning around, she saw tawny owl perched on the ledge outside. She took the letter from its beak quickly, shutting the window against the cold autumn air.

 _Dear Hermione,_

 _I’ve been waiting for you to pay me a visit, but I can’t wait any longer. I am telling you to come have a cup of tea with me around two this afternoon. We’ll be glad to hear what you’ve been up to._

 _Hagrid_

Hermione couldn’t believe that it hadn’t occurred to her to go and see Hagrid. Then again, she had barely spoken to anyone since she arrived. Knowing that she would eventually get around to talking to everyone about various subjects for her book, she had neglected to pay any social calls.

At that moment Hetty, the house-elf who brought Hermione’s lunch, appeared out of thin air with a tray. Hermione thanked her before tucking in to her chicken sandwich, looking forward to seeing Hagrid in a mere two hours.

/

“Good ter see you, Hermione.” Hagrid beamed as he stepped aside to let Hermione enter his cabin.

“Hello, Hagrid,” she replied. “Sorry I haven’t come before. I’ve just been so caught up since I got here.”

“I imagine yer enjoyin’ buryin’ yerself in the library,” he said knowingly, moving to pour them some tea.

“Of course, but your note made me realize that I should try to enjoy being back at Hogwarts as well. Who knows if I’ll ever be back after I finish.”

“O’ course you’ll be back! I’m ‘ere, aren’ I?”

“You know what I mean, Hagrid,” Hermione laughed.

“I ‘spose I do,” he nodded, setting a cup in front of her. “So how are ye gettin’ along with yer research?”

“Very well, thank you. I’ll probably start interviewing some of the staff soon.”

“Are yer goin’ to interview me?”

“I’m putting in a whole new section about the Chamber of Secrets,” Hermione informed him. “And you were actually there the first time it was opened, so you will be a very important source.”

“I can’ wait.” Hagrid grinned, taking gulp from his enormous mug.

“How are you getting on, Hagrid?” Hermione asked.

“Oh fine, fine. Finally got everythin’ back the way I like it,” he said as he glanced around. “Even better than me old hut, I’d say.”

“Everything looks brilliant,” she agreed, starting slightly when Fang appeared suddenly to drape his head across her lap.

“So ‘ave you seen much of anyone around the castle?” Hagrid asked her.

“Not really, no,” she admitted sheepishly, scratching behind Fang’s ears. “I’ve only really spoken to Professor McGonagall and Madame Pince. And Draco Malfoy the day before term started.”

“Malfoy, eh?” he asked lightly.

“Yes. In the library,” Hermione told him. “I was a bit shocked, obviously. No one told me he was here.” Hagrid had the good grace to look slightly abashed.

“Ah, well. I ‘spose Professor McGonagall didn’ think it’d matter much to ye,” Hagrid said. “She though’ he deserved a second chance, Hermione.”

“She’s not often wrong.”

“Now, if you were Ron or Harry, that’d be another story,” he chuckled.

“Yes, I daresay it would,” she agreed.

“But you always were the cleverest one, Hermione,” Hagrid said pointedly. “Clever enough to know tha’ the war changed people.”

She smiled and opened her mouth to reply, but was interrupted by a knock on Hagrid’s door.

“Wonder who that’ll be,” Hagrid thought aloud as he went to investigate. Hermione followed him with her eyes, peering around him to see a tall man with dark hair standing on the stoop.

“Good afternoon, Hagrid,” the man said cheerfully.

“Why ‘lo there, Professor,” Hagrid replied. “Come in and ‘ave some tea.” The man was already inside before noticing Hermione.

“Apologies, apologies. I didn’t realize you had company, my good fellow,” he gushed.

“Not to worry, Fabian. The more the merrier an’ all tha’,” the giant responded.

“Fabian Killelea, Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts,” Professor Killelea explained, taking Hermione’s hand and kissing her knuckles.

“Hermione Granger,” she returned, determined not to react impolitely to his flamboyant behavior.

“Was just having a walk, you know, and thought I’d drop in on you,” he told Hagrid.

“Well, very pleased you did,” Hagrid said, turning to prepare the newcomer a cup of tea.

“Hagrid told me all about your business here, of course,” Killelea informed her. “Fascinating project, I must say.”

“Yes, I’m enjoying it very much.”

“Not getting out much, I daresay. I haven’t seen you at all.”

“I’ve spent all my time in the library the last several weeks.”

“Of course, of course. Except to visit your old friend Hagrid, I see.”

“He quite had to force me out,” Hermione confessed.

“Well, how lucky for me he did,” Killelea continued, taking his cup and saucer from Hagrid’s outstretched hand. “Not many young people to have a decent chat with around here, you know. Everyone is wonderful, no question about that, but one does enjoy having a companion who is closer to his own age. No offense to you, of course, Hagrid. Young at heart, that’s the important bit. We’ll all be great friends, I know.”

“I’m flattered, Professor.”

“None of that, now, please. Fabian.”

“Fabian.” Hermione smiled, very close to laughing.

“We should all go out tonight, don’t you think?” he proposed. “Have dinner at The Three Broomsticks.”

“If you like,” Hermione replied.

“Hagrid?” Fabian asked, turning to him.

“Sure, sure,” Hagrid agreed.

“Jolly good,” Fabian announced with a smile.

/

“ _Really_?” Hermione demanded. “I’ve always been so curious about other wizarding schools. There’s just no getting a sense of what it’s really like out of a book.”

“Well I’ll have plenty of time to tell you absolutely everything, my love” Fabian promised, slicing into his steak.

“Why did you go to school in America?”

“Da got offered a job at their Ministry just before I was to start school,” he explained. “I don’t think he was too keen to take it, but Ma convinced him on account of her sister living in Boston.”

“Is there quite a large wizarding community there?”

“Oh, aye. The trials weren’t all bollocks, after all. Takes a certain kind of witch or wizard to deal with actually living in Salem, though. Have to be willing to have a laugh about it all, so much tourism and the like.”

“Did you only come back to England to teach at Hogwarts?”

“More or less. Always wanted to come back, of course. This just gave me a reason. Owed it to the motherland, I suppose. Hogwarts was in terrible shape after the war.”

“How long have you been friends with Hagrid?” Hermione asked, taking a bite of her haddock.

“Pretty much since I got here. We got on right away, both being so morbidly fascinated with dark creatures. Always good to swap a story or two with.”

“Yes, I imagine so. It’s a shame Hagrid had to go into the forest tonight.”

“Well I don’t suppose there’s much point arguing with Madame Pomfrey when she says she needs silverweed right away.”

“I certainly wouldn’t recommend it,” Hermione replied, sipping her goblet of elderflower wine.

“So Hagrid said you haven’t been out much, if I recall?”

“No, I’ve been terribly antisocial I’m afraid. I haven’t done much but pass people in the hallway.”

“You know, I was out walking the other night and I ran into the new Potions professor levitating a piano down a flight of stairs. Can you imagine?”

“What, Malfoy?”

“That’s the one,” Fabian confirmed.

“Levitating a piano?”

“Indeed.”

“What for?”

“No idea, but he didn’t seem very pleased to have been caught in the act.”

“Odd,” Hermione said. “I saw him the library before term started.”

“Bloody gorgeous, though, even if he does sneak around the castle with floating furniture,” he said thoughtfully, eating a forkful of mashed potato. Hermione snorted around the chip she had just put in her mouth. Fabian looked at her expectantly.

“Well, we were at school together,” Hermione elaborated. “I never really gave it much thought.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.” She laughed. “He was a right little git, so I wasn’t to notice.”

“Fair enough,” he nodded. “But is he still a git?”

“I’ve no idea. He’s different.”

“Different like… really shaggable?”

“Oh, shut up.”

“All right, all right. Not like there’s exactly a lot to look at around here,” he pointed out.

“I hear Professor Flitwick was quite the ladies’ man in his day,” Hermione said with a laugh. Fabian squinted into the distance thoughtfully before replying.

“I could see that.”

/

With the coaxing of Hagrid and Fabian, Hermione found time to enjoy being back at Hogwarts.

While the majority of her time was still spent in the library, she found more time for socializing in the weeks that followed her tea with Hagrid.

She sometimes took lunch with Fabian in his office, where he regaled her with tales of his schooling in America. He had just finished telling her about a classmate whose boggart had inexplicably turned into a giant teapot when an owl flew through the open window and landed on his desk. Fabian took the letter and skimmed its contents.

“Fancy walking down to the pitch with Hagrid tomorrow?” he asked.

“What for?” Hermione replied. He look at her incredulously.

“You really must get out more, darling,” Fabian chastised. “First Quidditch match of the season.”

“I’ve never been particularly interested, I confess. But it has been quite some time.”

“Brilliant,” he returned, scribbling a quick response on the same piece of parchment and sending the owl off with it.

“Who’s playing?”

“Slytherin and Hufflepuff.”

“Is Malfoy Head of Slytherin now?” Hermione wondered aloud.

“Aye,” Fabian nodded. “Did he play when he was at school?”

“He was a pretty good seeker. Unfortunately, Harry was always better.”

“I was always rubbish at sports. Dated one of the Fitchburg chasers when I was still at school though – his arse looked bloody magnificent in those pants.”

“Do try not to ogle any of the students tomorrow,” Hermione laughed.

“Ogling is a time-honored Quidditch past time, I’ll have you know.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize.”

“Oh, didn’t you? Your two best friends were Quidditch players at school. As if you never appreciated the view.”

“It is truly amazing how you manage to turn practically anything into a sexual diversion of some kind.”

“It’s a gift,” Fabian agreed. Hermione shook her head as she set her cup of tea on his desk and rose from her chair.

“Well, I’ve got plenty to be getting on with and as I recall, you have first years.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” he said to her departing back.

She gave Madam Pince an acknowledging smile as she entered the library, heading straight for her reserved room on the far side.

As she neared the Restricted Section, something bright caught the edge of her vision. When Hermione glanced over, she saw Malfoy curled up in a large chair. He was seemingly lost in whatever he was reading, not noticing her peering at him through the break in the shelves.

In her attempt to glimpse the title of the book in his lap, Hermione’s eyes hitched on the few inches of exposed skin beneath Malfoy’s shirt cuff. On someone less pale, she doubted that the contrast between flesh and the slightly raised scar would have been noticeable. Had she not known what she was looking at already, Hermione doubted she would have given it a second thought. But against the alabaster clearness of Malfoy’s arm, the writhing serpent’s head was all too apparent.

Feeling ashamed, as if she had seen something far too intimate, Hermione hurried quietly down the stacks to her destination.


	5. And Jagged Brazen Arrows Fall

Many would be surprised to learn that Draco Malfoy enjoyed teaching. Taking pleasure in giving orders was nothing new for a pureblood such as he, but what secretly delighted him was the triumph behind the eyes when instruction led to success. Whether it was a first year brewing his or her first potion correctly or an older student tackling a particularly difficult assignment, there was something undeniably pure about that fleeting moment which fueled him. The purity of that accomplishment, that pride, that often brief confidence – Draco could live a thousand years and never be tired of the flash as it lit someone up.

He was not agreeable in the way that some other professors were, but Draco was never cruel. He did not rave over the best students, but still acknowledged and complimented their efforts. Nor did he humiliate the worst students, but improved and encouraged as best he could. No one would call him their favorite teacher, but neither would they call him their least.

While he joined the rest of the castle for every meal, Draco did not venture out into the halls or the grounds in his unimpeded hours. Most of his time was spent in his quarters, the only company a rosewood piano and a glass of single malt scotch.

Draco had not ridden a broomstick since Harry Potter had flown them out of the Room of Requirement three years previously. Crabbe had been more of a follower than a friend, but seeing him burn to his death had still left a lasting impression.

Despite his reluctance to fly again himself, however, he could not quite bring himself to forego the first Quidditch match of the year.

/

On a crisp November morning, he threw on his cloak and headed out into the grounds with a flood of students and staff alike.

There was nothing quite like a Quidditch match at Hogwarts. An energy seemed to emanate from the pitch itself, drawing students up into the stands and filling them with a palpable excitement.

Draco glanced around for a good seat when he reached the Professor’s box. A gloved hand caught his eye and he saw that it was attached to Killelea, the intrusive man he had encountered on the staircase several weeks earlier. The blonde raised an eyebrow in surprise, but Killelea continued to wave him over. It was only after making his way over and sitting down that Draco realized the seat on Killelea’s other side was occupied by Hermione Granger.

“All right, old chap?” Killelea asked with a smile.

“Well enough,” Draco replied.

“Brilliant,” the dark-haired man said, clapping him on the shoulder. “You know my dear friend Hermione, yes?”

“I do,” acknowledged Draco, giving her a curt nod.

“Hello, Professor,” Granger greeted.

“Isn’t this lovely?” Killelea gushed. “Old friends. New friends. How lovely we’re all here together for such a lovely occasion.”

“Yes, Fabian,” agreed Granger in a slightly exasperated tone. “Lovely.” She glanced up at Draco with a shrug and a slight roll of her eyes.

Initially, Draco had no idea how to interpret these gestures. But by the end of the match, he understood completely. Whereas Killelea had been somewhat brief and mysterious during their first meeting, he was now flamboyant bordering on inappropriate. The first time that Draco had addressed him as Professor, the other man heatedly objected.

“Come now, dear love, there’s no need to be so formal! So terribly proper! You’ll call me Fabian, of course, and I’ll call you Draco, darling.”

“Fabian, then,” Draco amended.

“And how delicious it sounds when you say it. Oh look, Slytherin’s just scored!”

As the game continued, Fabian’s comments became more and more outrageous. He flirted shamelessly with both Draco and Granger, sometimes making them blush and other times forcing them to stifle laughter.

“Look at the bum on that Hufflepuff captain, Hermione,” Fabian said, pointing. “What a wonderful thing Quidditch is.”

“Indeed,” she replied shortly, although Draco noticed that she couldn’t quite keep herself from glancing at the aforementioned derriere.

“Still got your Quidditch pants, Draco?” Fabian asked with a smirk.

“I’ve no idea,” he answered.

“What a pity,” the dark-haired man responded with a disappointed sigh. “Do you fly much, Hermione?”

“Not if I can help it,” she admitted. “I was always rubbish.”

“Wouldn’t exactly be fair to the rest of us if there wasn’t one thing you were rubbish at, Granger,” Draco pointed out.

“Perhaps,” she agreed, smiling slightly.

“It is ridiculous how brilliant she is at everything, isn’t it?” Fabian added. “Her revisions are coming along spectacularly. Such an improvement, Draco. You should have a look at some of them.”

“I’m sure they are,” he said, turning his eyes back to the match in time to see the Slytherin seeker snatch the snitch from the air amid whoops and cheers.

/

As was her custom, Hetty the house-elf brought a tray bearing Draco’s afternoon tea at around two o’clock the next day. He put the quill he had been using to mark papers and reached for the kettle, but was halted by a knock on his office door. Looking up in surprise, Draco tried to imagine who would be calling. Reluctantly heaving himself from his comfortable armchair, he opened the door to reveal none other than Fabian.

“Tea time, isn’t it?” Fabian beamed, pushing his way past Draco. “Thought you might like some company.”

“Did you?” Draco said, closing the door. Fabian had already poured them both cups by the time his involuntary host sat back down.

“Been marking, have you?” Fabian asked, wrinkling his nose and not waiting for a response. “How droll.”

“I can’t say it’s the highlight of my day, but someone has to do it,” replied Draco.

“I suppose that’s true. Good match yesterday, wasn’t it? They were celebrating in the common room last night, I expect.”

“They probably were. But there wasn’t enough noise for me to notice.”

“You Slytherins are all so serious. It looks exhausting.”

“No more exhausting than being relentlessly cheerful, I’d say,” Draco said with a pointed look.

“But so much less fun, don’t you think?” Fabian responded, taking a sip of his tea. “You really must get out more. You’re almost as bad as poor Hermione. Didn’t leave the library for a bleeding month.”

“Some of us prefer to be alone.”

“What a bunch of bollocks. No one likes it all the time, darling. Everyone likes to loosen up a bit. Let their hair down. I know you’re not used to it, what with having been a hermit or whatever these past few years. But we really must get over that, don’t you think?” Fabian told him with no apparent concern for whether Draco took offense or not.

Since he had arrived at Hogwarts, no one had said anything to him about the fact that he had barely been seen in public for the last three years. Yet Fabian felt no inclination to tiptoe around the subject, despite not knowing how Draco would react.

Oddly enough, Draco wasn’t the slightest bit bothered by Fabian’s seemingly tactless approach to life. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had just told him exactly what they thought without caring one way or the other about the consequences.

“You’re just so… American, aren’t you?” Draco accused with an arched eyebrow and a teasing tone in his voice.

“Oh, don’t say that, love,” Fabian answered with a displeased expression. “I know it’s true, but it’s just so vulgar to point it out.”

/

Watching the Quidditch match had made Draco remember how much he had loved flying. The past few years had kept him focused on his own experiments, never seeing or hearing about anything that would bring it into his thoughts. But the crowd, the air, the electricity – Draco realized that he missed how far away and uncomplicated everything seemed when you were souring above it.

He woke up early on Monday morning, retrieved his Firebolt from the back of a cupboard, and quietly made his way out of the cold, silent castle.

Unlike most people, there was something Draco loved about this particular time of the day. The sun was just rising over the Forbidden Forest, rays of light still breaking through the tops of the trees. The lake was perfectly still and dark, not the slightest wave or ripple disturbing its surface. The grass was damp and made a wonderful crunching sound beneath Draco’s feet as he made his way down to the pitch.

As he stepped onto the slightly greener lawn that the stands enclosed, Draco marveled that no one would guess that everything around him had been reduced to rubble and charred wood only a few years before. He kicked off lightly from the dew-drenched ground, the cold air burning his cheeks and whipping through his hair.

Draco flew around the pitch in large, lazy circles, adjusting himself to the sensation of being on a broom again. He then began crisscrossing across the sky, increasing his speed and making sharp turns that made his skin hum with exhilaration.

Maneuvering his broom almost completely vertical, Draco shot up into the air before curving to the right and soaring towards the forest. He laid flat against his broom handle and skimmed his fingertips along the treetops, the rays of the morning sun like a warm caress against his face. He wasn’t sure how long he spent gliding high above the grounds, circling around the tower turrets and watching light bounce off the glass of the greenhouses.

As he landed back on the springy grass of the pitch, Draco’s legs protested from the shock and he almost stumbled. Taking a moment to gather his footing, he felt the sudden change in the air pressure as the sky slowly darkened. Casting a spell to avoid getting drenched only entered his mind for a moment, as Draco had always rather liked the rain. He threw his Firebolt over his shoulder and took off for a castle at a leisurely pace. When the rain began to pour, he did nothing to defend himself from the cold, refreshing downfall.

He almost didn’t see the other figure hurrying towards the castle steps, the water droplets magically repelling off her skin.

Wiping water from his eyes and pushing his hair out of his face, he looked up to see Hermione Granger. She was looking at him rather oddly, cheeks flushed and breathing heavy from having sprinted from, he assumed, the front gate. She blinked and looked away from him, reaching into her robes. Pulling out her wand, Hermione removed the shield from around her body and before casting a drying spell on Draco.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Quite early, isn’t it?” she asked, looking curiously at the broom he was carrying.

“Didn’t really want to be bothered,” Draco explained. She nodded, glancing around the hall.

“Do you fly much?”

“No,” he answered. “Not since--”

“Yes.”

“Going up to the library?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’ve got to get ready for classes.”

“All right. Bye, then.”

“Goodbye.”

/

Later that day, a seventh year girl named Renette Tovey dropped a Dungbomb into another student’s cauldron. The victim of Renette’s malice had been her best friend, Julie Sands. Draco was at a loss as to why Renette had ruined her friend’s potion and even more confused at the fact that Julie didn’t seem the slightest bit upset about it.

He had given Renette detention that evening, expecting to have her harvest the eyes from a large bowl of black beetles. When she arrived, Renette looked positively smug for no reason Draco could figure out. She was a girl of average height, with long brown hair and a face most would describe as pretty. When Draco told her what she was to do, she smiled at him lopsidedly and headed to the table he had prepared.

“Would you mind showing me the correct way to do it, Professor?” Renette asked sweetly, gesturing towards the pile of dead insects. Draco stared for a moment before rising from his desk and sweeping over to her.

He picked up a beetle and miniscule spoon, extracted one of its eyes with ease, and then dropped it into a small jar.

“I think you can handle that,” Draco said shortly.

“Could you just do it one more time?” She requested from beneath her lashes, leaning closer to him. From this angle, Draco had no choice but to notice that she was only wearing a button-down underneath her robes. And very few of those buttons were currently performing any practical function. Glaring at her, he scooped out the other eye and put it in the jar. She reached up and plucked the spoon from him before he had a chance to put it down, her fingers stroking suggestively over the back of his hand. “Thank you, sir,” Renette murmured softly, pressing her leg against his.

“Miss Tovey,” Draco whispered dangerously, stepping well away from her, “I don’t know what in Merlin’s name you think you are doing, but let me assure you that I am not only thoroughly uninterested, but unbelievably embarrassed on your behalf. If you are quite finished, I suggest that you focus your attention on completing your detention and getting the hell out of my classroom.” She had the good grace to blush and attempt to stutter something out, but Draco simply gave her a final thunderous look and strode into his office, slamming the door behind him.


	6. Athwart the Feathers of the Night

There were several reasons why Hermione Granger had been thoroughly disarmed when she met a soaking wet Draco Malfoy in the entrance hall that morning. The most superficial of these reasons reminded her forcibly of the awkward encounter between Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennett in her favorite _Pride and Prejudice_ adaptation.

She had no idea why he had made no attempt to shield himself from the downpour outside, choosing instead to let himself be soaked to the skin. He was clad in a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, grey trousers, and a pair of black Converse. The least of her concerns had been where Draco Malfoy had acquired shoes that were so decidedly unlike himself. 

His blond hair was dripping water, stray beads winding their way down the curves and angles of his face to finally drop from his chin. His skin wasn’t as pale as it ordinarily was, no doubt owing to the broom flung over his shoulder. The shirt clung to him like a second skin, the transparency revealing nothing anyone would complain about as well as a ghosting of scars across his chest.

Hermione had never seen Malfoy in such a state of unconcerned disarray. He had obviously not been expecting to see anyone, judging by his expression and the fact that he had neglected to cover the tattoo on his forearm. The combination of early morning flying and running through the rain had put him in a rare state of relaxation that seemed to surprise them both. Their halted conversation was nothing special, but his slate grey eyes pierced her strangely for a moment before he turned away.

She couldn’t quite shake the memory of their strange meeting for remainder of the day.

/

“Hello, darling!” Fabian called, bursting into Hermione’s research room on Friday morning.

“Hello, Fabian,” she answered with an exasperated sigh.

“You’ve barely emerged all week, you know!”

“I know. I’ve just been focused.”

“Well I think it’s time for a reprieve, don’t you?”

“That depends.”

“We’re going out tonight, my lovely!”

“Out where?” Hermione asked.

“A night of drinking and dancing, of course,” he said wickedly. “You’ve certainly earned it, cooped up in here working your cute little arse off.”

“Must I?

“You absolutely must!”

“No chance of escape whatsoever?” she inquired.

“Absolutely none,” he affirmed. “And I expect you to be looking like a right tart.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. I’m not dancing with you unless you look bloody fit,” Fabian told her. Hermione looked at him incredulously. “I have every confidence in you. See you outside the gates at ten.”

She stared at his retreating back with a strange mixture of both fondness and dread. Turning back to the scroll in front of her, Hermione determined not to think about what a night clubbing with Fabian would entail until she had to.

/

By the time she left The Three Broomsticks that evening, Hermione was already exhausted. She had no idea where she was going to gather the energy to withstand a night out.

Resigning herself to the fact that she was completely pathetic, she collapsed on her bed for a nap soon after entering her flat.

An hour later, she awoke to a shrill ring issuing from the wand on her bedside table. Picking it up and whispering the counter-spell, Hermione was relieved to note that she felt sufficiently revived.

She loitered in front of her wardrobe for quite some time, trying to find something Fabian would approve of that didn’t actually make her look like a slag.

Although many might be shocked at such information, Hermione had indeed been to several nightclubs before. Many of the girls who worked at the paper spent the majority of the weekend enjoying London’s nightlife and Hermione had been dragged out with them on occasion.

Reaching to the back of her closet, she pulled out a dress that she had been convinced into buying by one of the aforementioned coworkers. It was a simple red dress that hugged tight to the waist before flowing out. The skirt reached halfway down her thighs and the neckline was fairly plunging, so she supposed it would meet Fabian’s criteria.

Her hair took an inordinate amount of time to straighten, but she eventually achieved the desired result. Painting on a lot more eye makeup than she usually did and applying much darker lipstick than she usually wore, Hermione looked in the mirror and decided she did look quite fit. She dropped a pair of black slingback heels into her magically enhanced handbag before donning ballet flats and a cloak for the walk to the gate.

/

“See how she smolders!” Fabian called to Hermione once she was in his sights.

“And what exactly are you doing?” she asked him, looking pointedly at his obscenely tight leather trousers.

“Putting my best bum forward, as it were,” he answered, wiggling said asset in her direction.

“Did you magic yourself into those, Fabian?”

“That’s certainly no one’s business. Now, take hold of my arm, lovely,” Fabian instructed. She grasped his bicep and felt the familiar constriction and expansion of Apparition.

Opening her eyes, Hermione saw that they had appeared on a fairly busy street corner somewhere in London. Glancing around, she determined that they were a short distance from Charing Cross Road and the Leaky Cauldron.

Fabian wasted no time in hurrying her down the street towards a rather ridiculous queue. Forcing him to a halt a few yards away, Hermione braced herself on his arm while she changed her shoes.

“Thank Merlin for that,” he said towards her feet, to which she responded with a withering look.

“I am not standing out here in the bloody cold all night,” Hermione informed him.

“Of course not, of course not,” Fabian responded, glancing around them in a way that made him look rather like a harassed bird.

“What are you looking for?”

“Oh, didn’t I mention there will be three of us this evening?”

“You most certainly did not.”

“But I’m sure I did! How careless of me,” he expounded with a smirk. Hermione simply set her jaw and glared at him.

“What in the bleeding hell am I doing here right now?” said a familiar voice from over Hermione’s shoulder.

“You fucking tosser,” she hissed at Fabian before turning around and looking into the startled face of Draco Malfoy.

“Evening, Granger,” Malfoy managed. “Didn’t realize you’d be joining us this evening.”

“Silly me, I’m just so forgetful sometimes!” Fabian apologized in a most unapologetic tone. “But here we all are and don’t you just look fabulous, Draco!”

Malfoy was wearing the same Converse from earlier that day with a pair of black slacks and a black cardigan, under which he was wearing a printed red tee with pectoral and abdominal muscles on it. Hermione barely managed not to burst out laughing. She had no idea who this person was or what was going on.

“Are we waiting out here all bloody night?” Malfoy asked in Fabian and Hermione’s general direction.

“No, no, in we go!” Fabian replied, walking straight up to the doorman and giving him a wink. The tall blond stepped aside and let all three of them in, much to the irritation of those waiting in line. They were immediately swallowed up in a mass of people and noise. Fabian made determinedly for the bar, Hermione behind him.

“Shagged that doorman, did you?” shouted Malfoy over the music and Hermione’s head.

“A lady doesn’t kiss and tell!” Fabian yelled back. 

A few moments later, they were huddled by the counter, enjoying their respective poisons. Fabian was making quick work of his martini, while Hermione was slowly sipping her vodka and cranberry through a small cocktail straw. Malfoy had downed half a pint of lager immediately and was now staring into his glass.

“I’m having a hard time understanding why people enjoy this,” Malfoy said flatly.

“That is because you have a great big stick up your arse,” Fabian replied, knocking back the remainder of his drink.

“Better a great big stick than great big di--” the blond shot back, only to be interrupted by the arrival of a tall, olive-skinned man with black hair. He leaned down and said something in Fabian’s ear, inaudible to Malfoy or Hermione over the volume of the music.

“I’ll be back when you two are more pissed and hopefully more fun,” promised Fabian, setting down his glass and allowing the stranger to lead him out onto the dance floor.

“What in the fuck am I doing here?” Hermione heard Malfoy under his breath.

“What in the fuck are you doing here, Malfoy?” she blurted out. “Not exactly your scene, is it?”

“Is it yours?” he responded with a raised eyebrow.

“Fabian doesn’t really take no for an answer,” Hermione pointed out, taking a large sip of her cocktail.

“Right,” Malfoy answered, finishing his beer and turning to ask for another.

Hermione, who seldom imbibed alcohol, could already start to feel herself getting pleasantly tingly from intoxication. As Malfoy started on his second glass, she found herself staring at his hand as it brought the drink to his lips. It was perfectly manicured and his long fingers curved around the base, tightening when he took a mouthful. When he swallowed, she could see the muscles of his neck and jaw constrict and release.

“Are you all right?” he asked. Hermione was not sure how long it took her to register that Malfoy had spoken to her, but she dearly hoped the pause wasn’t as long as it felt.

“Oh, yes. Of course,” she answered, blinking and shaking her head slightly. Malfoy stared at her a moment before smirking.

“Bit of a lightweight, Granger?”

“Fuck off.”

“Quite a mouth when you’re sloshed, as well.”

“I am _not_. But even I was, that is what you are supposed to do at a place like this, so who bloody well cares?”

“Not me. The more pissed I am, the better to make it through this nightmare,” Malfoy said. Hermione snorted into her glass.

They stood there in silence for several more minutes, catching glimpses of Fabian undulating shamelessly against his dance partner. Once Malfoy had finished his second lager, he gestured to the bartender and said something that Hermione couldn’t hear.

From behind the bar emerged two shot glasses that were quickly filled with a clear liquid she could only assume was vodka, as she couldn’t read the label on the bottle.

“Come on, Granger,” Malfoy goaded. “Life is short.” She looked at him in surprise, finding in his eyes a challenge. Hermione wrinkled her nose in displeasure for a brief moment before steeling her jaw and picking up the offensive beverage.

She lifted her glass to him before quickly knocking it back, chasing it with the sourness of her cranberry juice. One corner of Malfoy’s mouth turned up as he held back a laugh, downing his own shot with his eyes closed.

He glanced over at her with a look Hermione could only describe as impish before hailing the bartender and ordering the same again.

/

Hermione was absolutely smashed. She drunkenly made her way out of the club with Malfoy and Fabian, stopping a short distance away from the entrance to slump against a brick storefront.

Looking up, she saw Fabian and Malfoy have a brief conversation that did not reach her ears. They both glanced over at her before saying a few more words to each other, apparently coming to some sort of agreement.

Fabian came over and gave her a light kiss on the forehead before turning and heading across the street in the company of a lanky redhead. Hermione slid her eyes from their retreating forms to that of Malfoy.

“Let’s get you home, Granger,” he said, gesturing for her to walk ahead of him. Pushing off from the wall, Hermione’s head began to spin and she collapsed heavily into Malfoy’s chest.

“Oh, my. I feel…” she paused, her brain working to form a coherent thought. “Weird.”

“I’m sure you do,” Malfoy agreed, putting an arm around her waist. He supported her weight down the street and into an alleyway.

“Where are we going?” Hermione asked, confused.

“I’m going to Apparate you to your flat,” he replied shortly. That was all the warning she received before the uncomfortable compression of it overtook her. The moment they landed on solid ground, Hermione lost her footing and began to topple out of Malfoy’s arms. He barely prevented her from landing flat on her back on the hard cobblestone street outside her small apartment.

Malfoy helped her up to the door, where she had enough awareness to fish her keys out of her handbag. She did not, however, have enough coordination to match the key to the small opening above the handle. He took the key from her shaking hand and unlocked the door easily, holding it open for her to pass through.

Another wave of dizziness overtook her and she slumped against the bannister to keep herself upright. Hermione’s vision swam as she felt Malfoy lift her into his arms and ascend the stairs.

She drifted in and out of consciousness as she felt herself placed on something large and soft. Her feet were freed from the confines of her shoes and she was covered in snug warmth as she fell fast sleep.


	7. And a Long Wave of Yellow Light

Draco had grown up in a pureblood household, which meant elegant parties and sophisticated dinners with every nicety observed and every luxury bestowed. As such, he was drinking the most expensive alcohol that money could buy from an early age – but he had also learned how to tolerate it in proper Malfoy fashion.

The same could obviously not be said for Hermione Granger. She had barely finished her second shot before her face began to flush and her replies to their light conversation became unnecessarily loud.

When he arrived outside the club and began searching for Fabian, Draco was already mentally flogging himself for agreeing to such a ridiculous invitation. Malfoys, even disgraced ones, did not generally spend their evenings gyrating against inebriated Muggles. 

He’d been surprised to find his flamboyant friend speaking to a curvy brunette in a tight red dress, as Fabian had made his sexual preferences embarrassingly clear. When she turned around and revealed herself to be Granger, only a lifetime of keeping his aristocratic calm prevented Draco from breaking into hysterical laughter.

Everything about the situation was alarmingly unfamiliar except for her – the people, the place, the clothes, the energy. He had never felt more uncomfortable in his life, but he didn’t think getting absolutely pissed would be the best solution. Granger, on the other hand, seemed to think it might be.

While Draco only felt mildly affected after their fourth vodka, his companion was completely gone. If someone had ever told him he would be in the presence of a thoroughly plastered Hermione Granger, he would have examined them for evidence of a Confundus Charm.

At some point, Fabian returned to drag them both out on to the dance floor. He partially succeeded and led away a more than willing Granger. They remained close enough for Draco to see them, although he was still trying to decide whether that was a good thing or not.

The air was thick with the humidity of movement, which had caused Granger’s hair to lose some of its artificial neatness. It fell in long, fluid curls down her back, errant strands clinging to her face and neck as Draco watched her be taken over by pure sensation.

After a few minutes she was joined by a dark blond man in all black who had decided he was now her dance partner, as seemed to be the usual protocol in a place such as this. Several women had inquired after Draco’s company after Granger had left his side, but he was uninterested in becoming entangled with a Muggle in or out of the club.

The stranger’s chest was flush against Granger’s back as she continued to move with abandon, her head falling back again his shoulder. His hands kept pace with her waist, rolling with the motion of her hips. The hem of her dress inched upwards, revealing more and more of her fair skin.

Eventually, they were dancing face to face, Granger’s arms around his neck as their lower halves ground together in one of the most indecent public displays Draco had ever witnessed. To say he was surprised at the source was an understatement.

Draco wasn’t sure how long he stood there, transfixed by the sight of her rutting against a complete stranger in the middle of a crowded room. Fabian finally pulled her away from the man, leading her back to the bar and to him. She was breathing heavily and laughing as she grabbed Draco’s drink out of his hand and knocked it back. Draco watched as a single bead of sweat trailed across her collarbone and down her chest, disappearing between her breasts.

“This has been brilliant,” Granger announced, beaming at Fabian. She hugged him enthusiastically and Draco could barely suppress a smirk as Fabian looked at him over Granger’s head with a raised eyebrow.

“Time to go, I think,” Fabian announced, putting an arm around Granger’s waist and supporting her through the sea of people.

As they reached the door, one of Fabian’s dance partners from earlier in the night caught him around the wrist and leaned down to his ear to say something Draco couldn’t hear. Fabian said something in return and his ginger companion followed them outside. 

Granger steadied herself on a nearby wall as Fabian turned to Draco.

“You’ll get her home, won’t you love?” he asked, glancing around at the redhead hovering behind him. “I’m afraid something’s going to come up.”

“I can see that,” Draco responded, shaking his head in amusement. Fabian told him Granger’s address, bid her farewell, and disappeared into the night.

Between Granger drunkenly falling all over him and babbling incoherently, Draco managed to Apparate them to the door of her flat in Hogsmeade.

After watching her try to insert her key for several minutes, he took pity on her and unlocked the door. However, she was barely two steps inside before nearly collapsing and he was forced to lift her barely conscious body into his arms and carry her up the stairs.

She felt light against him, burrowing her head into the crook of his neck and tickling his jaw as she breathed. The skin of her thigh was warm and soft against his hand, try as he might not to notice.

Granger’s apartment was impeccably clean, as he would have expected. Draco navigated their way through the sitting room and into the bedroom, laying her gently down onto a dark purple duvet.

He took off her shoes, as they looked terribly uncomfortable, and placed them on the floor beside her. Pulling the blanket over her sleeping form, he marveled at how unconcerned she looked. At Hogwarts, she had always seemed to Draco to have a look of perpetual anxiety about her.

But lying there, surrounded by mounds of plum-colored fabric, her long hair falling across the pillow, Draco could almost think Hermione Granger was beautiful.

/

He spent the remainder of the weekend grading coursework and planning future lessons, occasionally emerging to play a few notes and enjoy a drink. The bizarre scene that he had been a part of on Friday night seemed a distant memory, not likely to ever be repeated.

Monday dawned crisp and clear, pleasant enough for Draco to enjoy an afternoon walk about the grounds. He shared a few friendly words with Hagrid and observed several entertaining minutes of a flying lesson.

His classes passed without major incident, although a second-year boy did melt straight through his cauldron and half a table towards the end of the day.

Draco headed for the library after dinner, comforted by the thought that Granger would have already left for the evening. He was not looking forward to the inevitable awkward encounter after a night of intoxication, though he had nothing to be embarrassed about.

After having a word with Madam Pince and ascertaining that the book he was after resided in the Restricted Section, Draco headed off in search of it. His most recent research was focused on poison antidotes and the tome he pursued, _Most Potente Potions_ , had been mentioned as an excellent source for information on slow-acting venoms.

Pulling out the large leather-bound volume, Draco tucked it under his arm and headed for his favorite armchair. Much to his displeasure, his seat was already taken.

Hermione Granger was thoroughly involved in a small book with an intricately embroidered blue and gold cover. She sat sideways in the chair, her back resting against one arm while her legs draped over the other. Her plain black skirt had ridden up to expose an ample amount of dark stocking, ending in a simple lace garter that stretched over her thigh and disappeared under her hem.

Draco found himself temporarily mesmerized by every minute movement of her body. Her fingers tightened their grasp on the book’s cover, her calves slid against one another in apparent agitation, she slowly dragged her teeth across her lower lip. The book fell from Draco’s grip and hit the floor hard.

Granger screamed and slammed her book shut, hand pressing into her heaving chest.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,” she repeated, gasping for air. Falling back into the chair, Granger’s eyes narrowed at him accusingly.

“Begging your pardon,” Draco said weakly.

“What the fuck are you doing?” she glowered.

“You’re in my chair.”

“Bought it yourself, did you?”

“What were you reading, Granger?” he asked, smirking at her. She shoved the book behind her, turning quite deliciously pink.

“Just… researching,” she answered, clearing her throat.

“I’d love to know what kind of research that was,” Draco told her, moving closer to her. Granger avoided his gaze, irritation radiating from her. Before she could react, he shoved her aside and snatched the small book from under her derriere. Granger shrieked and desperately attempted to reclaim it, but Draco held it easily out of her reach.

Letting it fall open, he scanned a page at random.

_Despite our efforts to be discreet, I believe we may have been discovered. Helga gave me a very knowing look at breakfast this morning, as if the evidence of last night was written plainly across my features._

_I would scarcely be surprised if my face was unable to conceal how glorious I feel in the aftermath of our lovemaking. We snuck away to the lake in the blackness, our only source of light the moon that was as full as I soon would be._

_I could hear the sounds of nature issuing from the forest, the howls of werewolves and the galloping of centaurs, as Godric claimed me with a passion so fervent that my moans of pleasure nearly drowned out the surrounding noise._

_His desire was so overwhelming in both size and stamina that I found I could scarcely walk when I awoke. It is becoming increasingly difficult to sit across the table from him at our meetings without imagining the incredible feeling of his mouth caressing my most intimate of places._

“Granger, what in Merlin’s name is this?!” Draco asked, choking with laughter. He turned to the title page and read _Hogwarts Harlots Series: Ravenclaw’s Ravishment_. Looking up, he saw that Granger had folded her arms over her chest and was simply waiting for him to stop laughing.

“I was reading that, if you don’t mind,” she said when he had quieted, holding her hand out for it.

“Where did you even find that?” he asked, placing the book in her outstretched palm.

“I don’t know, it was just in one of the stacks I’d been going through for research.”

“Not sure you’re going to find anything historically significant in this.”

“Yes, yes, fine,” Granger muttered. “What are you doing in here, Malfoy?”

“Actual research,” he replied, retrieving his book from the floor. She glanced at it and gave a small smile of amusement. “I would have come sooner if I’d known I was going to come across such a hilarious scene of depravity.”

“I am a grown woman and what I do with my time is none of your business.”

“Fair enough, Granger. I’ll just go and let you get back to your… research,” Draco said with a smirk. “Let me know if you need any help.”

“Brilliant. Now fuck off, if you please,” she ground out in annoyance. He gave her one last look of bemused bewilderment before turning and hurrying out of the library.

/

The image of that black garter stretched across Granger’s thigh seemed imprinted on the inside of Draco’s eyelids. Every time he closed his eyes to sleep, every time he blinked for slightly too long – there it was. He surely must be running mad, such was the extent of his preoccupation.

Draco channeled this insanity into even heavier drinking than usual, followed by long nights of playing his piano until his hands were practically numb.

With Thursday came a brief note from his insufferable know-it-all:

_Malfoy,_

_I will be including a memorial piece dedicated to Professor Snape in the new version of_  
Hogwarts: A History. _I would like to interview you in regards to this. Please let me know if this evening at 6 o’clock would be convenient._

_Hermione Granger_

He stared at the piece of parchment angrily for several moments. Eventually, he responded in the affirmative, hoping that a dose of Granger as her usual obnoxious, barely tolerable self would erase all previous encounters. Draco had started to see her as an actual person and with that came actual feelings which were simply not allowed.

She knocked on his door precisely on the hour and Draco was pleased to note that he found this irritating. From the moment she crossed into his sitting room, he got the distinct impression that Granger was uncomfortable. Apparently, discovering her in the library in a somewhat compromising position hadn’t left her entirely unfettered.

As he handed her a drink, Draco noticed her eyeing his upright with poorly concealed interest. Not really caring to let his relationship with Granger get any more personal, he ignored this. Sitting down across from her, he waited for her to say something.

“Yes, well, let’s just get on with it,’ she said finally, taking a large gulp of wine.


	8. Breaks Silently on Tower and Hall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The piece that Draco plays in this chapter is "Étude Op. 10 No. 3" by Frédéric Chopin, better known as "Tristesse" (Sadness). It is readily available on YouTube.

Chapter 8

Breaks Silently on Tower and Hall

The severity of Hermione’s hangover when she awoke on Saturday morning was dire indeed. She dressed haphazardly before she hurried down the High Street to the apothecary for a headache cure, where she received an inappropriately amused look from the shopkeeper.

Finally able to think clearly, Hermione’s mind drifted back to the events of the previous night and she could have screamed with embarrassment. Her memory was hazy, an alarming sign in itself, but she distinctly remember knocking back shots with Draco Malfoy, humping a complete stranger, and having to be carried to bed by someone – she assumed Fabian.

She had never behaved like such an absolute berk in her entire life. This was all Fabian’s fault, as far as she was concerned. That Irish twat.

Said twat strode into her flat at around one o’clock with no apparent guilt whatsoever.

“What a top night, wasn’t it love?” he asked, grinning.

“It didn’t rate for me,” Hermione said coldly, glaring at him through narrowed eyes.

“Really? You looked like you were having a cracking time to me.”

“I’m surprised you managed to notice.”

“There was a fair amount of distraction, but I distinctly remember you making the choice to drink excessively and rub up against that rather strapping thing in the tight t-shirt.”

“None of that would have ever happened if you hadn’t dragged me there. And in front of Malfoy! _Malfoy_!” she moaned.

“I think he rather enjoyed it,” Fabian smirked. “Got you home all right, it seems.”

“What do you mean? Surely you didn’t leave me drunk and in the clutches of Draco fucking Malfoy!”

“How dramatic you are. I had a rather urgent matter to attend to, so I left you in the trustworthy and nimble hands of dear Draco.”

“You are unbelievable. What urgent matter?”

“His name was Theo, if I recall. Bloody massive co--” Fabian started, only to be cut off by Hermione choking on the cup of tea she was holding.

/

Hermione did not emerge from her flat for the entire weekend. She chose to forego acting like an adult in exchange for eating ice cream and reading _Bridget Jones’ Diary_.

This, in her opinion, was simply necessary preparation for having to see other human beings again on Monday after being an ass. Regardless of the fact that the majority of them would have no idea what she had gotten up to on Friday, she felt like they would somehow know.

The most horrible encounter would obviously be with Malfoy, which she did not think could get worse until Fabian informed her that it was he who had tucked her into bed.

Malfoy would either be laughing his head off about it all or trying to block out what he no doubt considered a thoroughly distasteful memory. Hermione had to admit that either was a valid reaction.

She was starting interviews that week and Malfoy was on her list for Monday. Hermione was mentally throttling herself for this, feeling as though putting it off was somehow an admission of defeat.

Hermione Jean Granger simply would not be scared of Draco bleeding Malfoy.

/

Bollocks.

Bollocks.

Merlin’s bloody _bollocks_.

Why oh why had she not just put the book in her bag and waited until she got home to peruse it further? Probably because she had happened upon a rather racy bit when she was skimming through it initially and her love life wasn’t exactly stimulating these days.

And so it was that Malfoy came upon her in a state of complete arousal, no way on this Earth to play it off as if it was not exactly what it looked like.

Hermione had never experienced this particular look of mingled shock, amusement, and mortification on Malfoy’s face. He got over it quickly enough, only to snatch the offending romance novel from her and scan one of the pages. His eyes widened as his mouth spread into a smile of genuine mirth that almost made her forget the years of torment he had inflicted on her.

“Let me know if you need any help,” he had said as he walked away. There was something dancing behind his eyes that she could not quite identify, but it was certainly something she had never seen before.

After Malfoy departed, Hermione immediately shoved the book into her bag and left the library for Fabian’s office.

When she strode in, Fabian was standing at the mirror behind his desk waving his wand around his head. He was examining the effect of each new hairstyle with his typical flamboyant air.

“Darling!” Fabian exclaimed, turning around with flourish.

“A little hip for a teacher, don’t you think?” Hermione asked as Fabian skimmed his fingers through the top of his fauxhawk.

“What a stick in the mud you are.”

“You may reconsider that statement after I tell you what just happened.”

“Gossip?! I’m starved for it! Tell me immediately.”

“Draco Malfoy walked in on me reading erotic literature,” she said flatly. Fabian goggled at her.

“I can’t say I’m surprised, dull as your love life must be,” he said after a moment. “Did he offer to give you some practical experience?” Fabian waggled his eyebrows.

“He did say to let him know if I needed any help,” she blushed, covering her face with her hands.

“Then what in Merlin’s name are you doing here when you could be getting properly shagged by a bloody gorgeous reformed Death Eater with a heart of gold and an arse to die for?”

“Just because I tolerate being in the same room with him doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten that his sole mission in life was once to torment me and call me a mudblood every chance he got.” Hermione replied in a frosty tone. Fabian sat down in the armchair next to her and gazed at her rather intently.

“So he was a shit,” Fabian agreed. “I’m sure he wouldn’t argue with you. He was raised as a Malfoy, love. I don’t think we can really imagine what that means.”

Hermione looked at him, turning his words over in her mind. She thought about the look on Malfoy’s face as Bellatrix Lestrange repeatedly cast the Cruciatus Curse on her the night they were captured by Snatchers. She thought about his anguished shout as Crabbe had been swallowed by Fiendfyre in the Room of Requirement. She thought about the fact that Narcissa Malfoy had saved the entire Wizarding World by telling Lord Voldemort that Harry was dead.

But most of all she thought about Severus Snape and what would have become of him if Dumbledore had not believed that it was possible for people to change.

“You’ve made your point,” Hermione conceded. “But it is still highly unlikely that Draco Malfoy wants to shag me.”

Fabian gave her a withering look.

/

Malfoy looked bothered when he opened the door to admit her. Bothered by what exactly, she couldn’t say. She noticed a large piano against the wall behind him and blinked at it in surprise. If Malfoy noticed this, he chose not to comment.

Sitting down, he stared at her expectantly.

“Yes, well, let’s just get on with it” Hermione said briskly, downing half her glass of wine in one go.

“What exactly are you expecting me to contribute?” Malfoy mused, swirling his tumbler of scotch.

“Well, you were close to Professor Snape.”

“Your point being?”

“That you have a unique perspective.”

“If you’re expecting me to tell you that the _real_ Severus Snape was actually a warm and caring role model in private, nothing like the sour old git everyone thought he was, I’m afraid you’re going to be sorely disappointed.”

“Be that as it may,” she replied sourly, “He is a war hero and people want to know more about him.”

“You can tell them he’d be revolted to be called a war hero.”

“Ha ha ha.”

“You are barking up the wrong tree, Granger. What makes you think I can tell you anything you don’t already know?”

“He made an Unbreakable Vow,” Hermione told him quietly. “To protect you.”

“On Dumbledore’s orders, I’m sure.”

“Why he did it doesn’t really matter, does it? The telling part is that he did.”

“I still don’t have any revelations for you worth putting into print,” Malfoy informed her flatly, standing up and beginning to pace.

“Why are you being so bloody unhelpful?” Hermione demanded.

“What do you want me say, Granger?” he snapped, collapsing onto the piano stool. “That I have no idea what to make of him, even years later? That I never could have done what he did? That I couldn’t look Voldemort in the eyes, weak and stupid as I was, while Snape risked his life every second of every day?”

She had no response for this outburst. Almost unconsciously, Malfoy’s fingers struck a few notes. The sound hung in the silence for what seemed like minutes, but was probably only seconds.

Hermione took another large drink of wine and said nothing. She watched the back of Malfoy’s head, tilted downward as he continued to stare at the piano keys. He let out an audible sigh, positioned his hands, and began to play in earnest.

Music was not a field that Hermione’s expertise extended to. But as far as she could tell, Malfoy played beautifully. His long fingers flowed through the piece as if through liquid, smooth and effortless. She could not help thinking that although it was a rather sad composition, it suited him in a way that she could not quite put into words.

At some point she had risen and moved closer to the piano. She watched the muscles in the back of Malfoy’s hands extend and contract, watched the veins rise up to surface, watched his fingertips depress the keys with the lightest of touches.

Hermione placed a hand on his shoulder and Malfoy stopped playing instantly. He stood up so abruptly that she was almost knocked to the ground. She suddenly found herself pushed up again the piano, wooden edges painfully digging into her back. Her backside hit random notes as she stared up at Malfoy, towering over her with an expression she had no idea how to read.

The pale skin of his face had grown paler still and his silver eyes bored into her with the force of a physical blow. One of his hands came to rest on the wooden surface next to her face, while the other slid slowly and purposely up the back of her leg to close around the flesh of her bum.

Her eyes fluttered shut as Malfoy’s face began to inch nearer. She nearly jerked in surprise when she heard his voice in her ear, his lips ghosting over her cheekbone.

“Go away, Granger.”

Hermione’s brain flew back into her body in a singularly unpleasant fashion. She shoved her palms into Malfoy’s chest and he allowed himself to be propelled back several steps. Pushing past him, she grabbed her bag and left the room without looking back.

/

The moment she shut the door of her flat behind her, Hermione began to pull off her clothes as fast as possible. She stepped into the shower and blasted herself with scalding hot water.

She felt disgusting.

After scrubbing her skin red, Hermione collapsed onto the floor tried to feel nothing but the pressure and heat of the water coursing over her.

So many people had died. Harry’s parents. Cedric Diggory. Dumbledore. Mad-Eye. Fred. Tonks. Lupin. Snape. Malfoy and his family had been a part of that. What would they think of her now? What would Harry and Ron and Ginny think? What did she think?

If she was honest, she believed that people could change. She had to think that. Men like Dumbledore and Snape had made mistakes when they were young – grave mistakes. But these faults were far overshadowed by the good that they had done. They had all been so young. The fact that she and Harry and Ron had somehow succeeded did not change how young and foolish and naïve they had been.

People can change. Malfoy can change. Malfoy _has_ changed. Hermione has changed. Nothing in the past need influence how she felt now. And she was most certainly having some feelings.

Oh, fuck.


End file.
